


It's a Rotting Cage

by mightynight007



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:55:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightynight007/pseuds/mightynight007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm not saying you're a ghost, but for the love of God, stop haunting me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Rotting Cage

_It was the same beginning._

That first, slow, warm note broke through his state of sleep and sent him sitting up in a panicked flurry of surprise. The melody continued, long notes sending surprise and horror into his mind.

Him.

John Watson turned his head towards the closed bedroom door, not trusting his ears for a single second and yet it couldn’t be a lie. His heart stopped and started and his breathing practically stopped dead in his tightening chest. Then, a moment later, bare feet were touching cold wood as John left his room for the steps. He stopped just outside the closed door before throwing it open. The melody poured out of the flat for a few seconds before stopping. Sherlock Holmes turned from the window, moving the violin from his shoulder as a smile touched the corners of his lips.

“John.” A deep baritone, rolling thunder in a summer’s storm. Sherlock set the violin and bow down in his chair, walking away from the window to approach him.

“No,” John said suddenly, backing away. Sherlock stopped.

“What?” he asked. “John, what’s wrong?”

John was shaking his head. “No, no, you- …I saw… you’re dead.”

“I know you’re confused-”

“Stop-”

“-but I can explain everything, I didn’t have-”

John grabbed the vase of flowers on the table just outside the flat door and threw it with all of his force at Sherlock’s head. It was heavier than expected and struck him dead in the chest, exploding on impact. Glass and water and flowers rained down as Sherlock staggered at the sudden blow. John had almost hoped it would pass right through him.

Sherlock examined his now wet shirt, the glass having cut through a bit of the fabric to scratch his chest. “I guess I kind of de-” The sentence went unfinished as John’s fist met his face.

The first blow was direct, and the sound of cracking bone accompanied the sudden flood of blood from Sherlock’s nose. Second, cutting his lip, third, a blind throw to his cheek, fourth, anything John could hit to bring some kind of pain. There was screaming, and as Sherlock grabbed his fist to slow another blow John realized it was coming from his own lips. John fought against Sherlock for a moment before finally giving up, his head falling onto Sherlock’s chest as tears suddenly stained John’s cheeks. The two remained silent, save for John’s soft sobs. Sherlock gripped John’s fists in his hands, squeezing them gently for a moment.

“You fucking bastard,” John said with a ragged breath.

“I know.”

“It’s been a fucking year. You left me- You left me alone, looking at you’re…” He blinked the sudden flurry of images away. “There was so much blood, Sherlock,” he whispered quietly.

Sherlock stared at John without seeing anything. “…I’m sorry,” he said gently.

John pulled his head back, cold laughter falling from his lips. “What do you want me to say?! That I forgive you?! No, Sherlock, you can’t just come back and think that I-”

“John, please, there isn’t much time,” Sherlock said, the words almost a plea rather than his typical tone of voice.

“Much time for what? You’ve had all the time in the world!”

Sherlock’s hands loosened around John’s fists. John pulled his hands away from his grasp, though they felt suddenly cold as he did.

“I can't take this anymore, Sherlock," John said quietly. "I'm stuck inside myself and it's a rotting cage, and one day it's all going to go away and there will be nothing left to save me from myself. You... I can't. Sherlock." He looked deep into the other's eyes. "You don't understand how much I've been hurt."

John froze as the not-dead man suddenly ran up and hugged him. John turned to look up at him and Sherlock met his gaze, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. John was silent, staring in shock at the unexpected emotion that was coming through his face of emotionless ice.

“Don’t you see this hurt me too? I had to, John, I couldn’t let anything happen to you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if… I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Please.”

John was silent before he finally hugged him back, their embrace expressing more than their words would ever.

“I missed you.” John said.

“Miss,” a new voice interjected. John suddenly pulled away, turning to the still open doorway to see a familiar face.

Jim Moriarty leaned casually against the doorframe, a smiling madman spinning a pistol on his fingers as he stared at the two. “Oh, don’t mind me, boys,” Jim said, “I just was watching the happy homecoming. I’m jealous, John; what I would do to get The Virgin to hold me like that.”

Sherlock looked at Jim with disappointment. “You said you weren’t coming.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I would miss crashing this party?” He strolled into the flat, past the two men to the window where Sherlock had been almost moments before. “Wow. Fancy-shmancy, Johnny. It’s perfect!”

“What the hell are you doing here?!” John demanded, trying to hide his confusion.

Jim turned from the window back to Sherlock. “So you haven’t told your boyfriend yet?” He covered his mouth, faking embarrassment. “Awkward!” He chirped in a sing-song voice.

“Please, Jim,” Sherlock said.

Jim sighed. “Come on, Sherly. Time to bring the matter to an end, don’t you think?” The pistol glittered in the sunlight that filtered in through the window.

John looked at Sherlock. “What’s he talking about? Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“And if I don’t?” Sherlock replied, ignoring John.

Jim smirked victoriously. “You’re not the one who decides whether or not we have an incomplete melody. In fact, I believe the decision as to how our fairytale ends has been pre-determined. We can’t change that, can we?”

Sherlock sighed. “He doesn’t understand, don’t you see that? I can’t leave him like this. He needs an explanation.”

Jim laughed. “An explanation? I can give him that.” He turned to John. “Once upon a time, the world fell in love with a fraud. The boring little angel lost a very important game. There was a funeral, his pet couldn’t find a surgeon to stitch the wounds in his broken heart, and the rest of the world moved on. And they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

John glared coldly at the man. “Liar.”

Jim shrugged. “Okay, maybe a little, yeah. Apparently you still care. But he still lost.”

Sherlock abandoned John, approaching the man emotionlessly. “That’s the best you have?”

Jim thought for a moment. “That’s all there is. No one’s going to be publishing a sequel anytime soon if the main characters all died.”

The two men suddenly grabbed one another’s hands, staring directly into one another’s eyes.

“Sherlock!” John called out.

“I’ll find a way back, John.” Sherlock said. “I’m not going to leave you.”

Jim laughed. “Good luck with that.” John watched in horror as Jim put the pistol’s barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger, crimson rain and brain matter covering the window as the remainder of the body fell into oblivion, a smiling devil. Sherlock looked over at John one final time before shattering the now red glass and falling through.

“SHERLOCK!”

....

The dream stopped there. Again. A recurring nightmare, the creation of a wish for one more miracle.

_It was the same ending._


End file.
